


Changes

by Aithilin, Wind_Ryder



Series: Something New [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Lestrade, Alpha Victor, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Sherlock, Omegaverse, Other, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:50:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1609082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't help but catalogue everything that changes in his life now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing that he had noticed was that Sherlock was sleeping more. There were fewer days when he would crawl into bed at some ungodly hour while Sherlock worked in the kitchen; even fewer when he would wake and Sherlock would still be working. He would no longer be woken an hour before his alarm by Sherlock squirming his way beneath the covers. 

Instead, more often than not, Sherlock would follow him to bed. Experiments that required spot checks and strange schedules of review were stopped (not that a Lestrade would admit he was grateful for that-- those sorts of experiments tended to be the sort that could destroy the kitchen). Longer work that was less time sensitive took its place, easily given a new priority in cases that were no longer time sensitive. 

And Sherlock would get a decent night's rest. He would actually _cuddle_ in some cases, breathing in the scents that calmed him, that were thought to be good for the child he carried— the reassuring scents of an alpha who patiently grumbled at him to settle so he could wrap them both in the blankets.  


The second thing Lestrade noticed was the change in cases. He had taken to letting Sherlock have his pick of the puzzles as they came up, but Sherlock willingly turned away the ones that would have him running about the city in pursuit of gangsters and desperate criminals. Not that Lestrade minded, but he had worried at first. Instead, Sherlock took the cold cases and thefts, blackmail and disappearances-- cases that could be solved without putting himself in the thick of trouble. 

For a while, he wondered if Sherlock was sick. 

At least until he found the notebook. It had been left on the top of the desk, and Lestrade could readily admit that he was curious. He had seen Sherlock scribbling through the pages throughout the past four months, but hadn't taken the chance of asking after what new experiment this could be. But page after page of Sherlock's neat, precise writing was notes on his pregnancy. Line after line filled with observations and little commemorations. 

_Week One-- Scent Change. Confirmed by two observers._

Instead of setting his mind to work on criminals and chemistry, the omega had taken to documenting every small change with himself; every craving and odd feeling he could not define, Sherlock recorded. There were attempts to predict hormone levels based on days and moods, confirmed or crossed out by tests (far too often for Lestrade's liking) and the results signed off by Molly's happy signature. Cravings were documented by days, then analysed by week-- week five (when the whole thing had been properly confirmed) had involved a strange mix of Italian and curry specifically from a tiny shop nearly across town. There were foods listed, crossed out, some so despised now that the page was nearly torn from where Sherlock had violently crossed it out of his list of "potential meals" (Lestrade remembered the first bouts of sickness well; he couldn't blame Sherlock for swearing off korma for the rest of the pregnancy).

There were pages of doctor's notes compared to old superstitions. Ideas of whether scent could reveal gender, or if the combination of two alpha scents would skew perception. Observations on iron levels and nausea. 

Important dates were given entire pages— milestones and theoretical dates, appointments and ‘classes’ (Sherlock had glared at the offered list and pamphlets of parenting classes with disdain, certain that “between the three of us, I’m sure we’ll manage”). Kept appointments were given notes and context, but the future ones were just dated and named. Several of these dates were marked with a post-it, and it took Lestrade a moment to realize that they were dates when an alpha was expected to be in attendance. 

An archaic practice, but only the alpha could sign off on some tests, and had to be present for some explanations. Sherlock despised the system that he had now entered— one that questioned his decisions at every turn and asked “does your alpha agree with this?” or “has your alpha picked a name yet?” 

They had taken to having both Lestrade and Victor close during these things, in case some idiot questioned Sherlock’s ability to understand his own choices. While Victor was out of London, most of the work in keeping Sherlock from murdering well-meaning medical staff had fallen to him. 

The notebook appeared to be Sherlock’s own way of coping with both the changes and the sudden expectations that had been laid on his shoulders. Anything remotely associated with the child growing in the omega was observed and written down, dissected and compared. 

Lestrade much preferred this to burn patterns on human flesh, as far as experiments go.


	2. Chapter 2

They had taken to Skype for the early months. A laptop and its camera positioned in the flat so Sherlock could wander about his business while the alpha’s talked about boring things. Like cots and clothes, and all the things Sherlock assumed turned up from well-wishing parents and friends. It was easier to manage when there was just one alpha in Baker Street; Mrs. Hudson didn’t tut as much, and the gossip she shared from the neighbours was less and less frequent. It was quieter, and calmer, and doctors and nurses didn’t make the usual comments about how “unusual” it was for two alphas to get along so well around a pregnant omega, or demand that he choose one alpha to sit in with him (when he refused to have any alpha— doctor included— involved in the early tests, he had to pester Mycroft to find a suitable doctor). 

Sherlock had taken to keeping a second notebook dedicated to the expectations he experienced now. 

Playing the meek, lost omega had helped with plenty of cases before. Now it was clear that society would treat him as fragile due to his “state”, he had taken to finding ways to use that to his advantage. When it was only his scent to alert others to his state, Sherlock had managed to be ‘caught’ by a group of alphas dealing out laced drugs near schools. With the expectation that he was harmless firmly in place, Sherlock had gathered information and evidence, then allowed Lestrade to send in the teams he was working with. 

But now that he was showing, Sherlock had started to document the strange standards people held. 

But for now, safe in the rooms of 221B, with Victor explaining how he’ll be home soon, and Lestrade already making arrangements for the upstairs room as a nursery, Sherlock relaxed. With the sounds of both alphas— content, but practical— he could let himself forget the idiots outside who insisted that he was to be touched and complimented and accosted in the streets, and focus on the task at hand. 

“I’m not naming a child of mine Jacob.”

“It’s a good name, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed as he crossed off the name from his list. “What about Jonathan?”

“John would be insufferably smug. No.”

Victor’s voice was tinny from the speaker, a strange echo from the microphone caught out in a too-big room distorting whatever he said if he muttered or stumbled over a phrase. “What about Victor? It’s only fair.”

“And if Lestrade decides that either one of you has done something unacceptable, you’ll both be yelled at and confused. No.”

“Declan?”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

He could hear the grin in Victor’s voice. “Which one of us?”

“Both.” Sherlock threw himself to the sofa, ignoring the startled noise from Lestrade. He hummed as arms closed around him a moment later, and finally took a good look at Victor. The alpha was exhausted, smiling, and content, but exhausted. His shoulders curled forward and his hair was still mussed from a day of not taking care of himself. He was pale and drawn thin, clearly not eating as he should, and this was the third day of hours-long talk with them both. Sherlock made a note to discuss this when Victor was back home-- the distance was clearly not going to be a benefit to them. “Clearly there is only one solution.”

“We’re not naming our son Sherlock.”

“It’s a good name.”

“It’s archaic, and didn’t help you any, sunshine. I'd rather William, or Scott, if we named him after you.” Lestrade said as he skimmed the long list of potential names he had gathered. “What about Daniel?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to object, but Victor spoke first. “I like it.”

There was a pause in the conversations as the alphas looked to Sherlock for a final verdict. He mulled it over, considered the name— it’s sound, the meanings, the option to include a surname to it— and nodded. “It will do. But all children are keeping the Holmes name.”

Lestrade smirked and made a note of the name in the much-shortened list in Sherlock’s notebook of pregnancy data. “That’s unorthodox.”

“Bite me.”

“When Victor gets home.”


End file.
